Consecrate Our Love
by theatrics
Summary: There isn't a cloud in the sky.  In fact, it's clearer than it's been all week – a perfect marriage of baby and powder blue.


There isn't a cloud in the sky. In fact, it's clearer than it's been all week – a perfect marriage of baby and powder blue.

It's funny. The sun shines as though it's got something to say for itself as it spills across the emerald tent and its velvet green seating. Yet there's an eerie quality to it all, too.

"_Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis_," drones the collective, a curious batch of men, women, and children. Young and old, they lend their voices for a final rendition of 'Kyrie' before the man in front draws them to a gentle, mutual close. Silence, definite and certain, drops like dead weight – and for a moment, no one moves. No one says a single word. There lingers only birdsong and the timid lisp of the east winds.

"It has been humbly requested," begins the man down front, "that the friends now speak."

There is a heaviness to his voice, like solid lead in water. Few shift, even as it has been made clear that there is to be movement from at least a couple of the group. Heartbeats pass, and it is only the motions of a young man on the second row that draws those around him from their reverie. In an ill-fitting suit, un-tucked and unkempt, he staggers toward to the front with his back to the velvet-encased chairs. Somewhere behind him, there's a stifled cry.

"You," the young man now at the forefront is Noah Puckerman. "I'm not good at these," he laughs, but it's vacant – as his left hand drifts across the wood of the manifestation before him. "I love you, you know that? Always have. Always will. You were a good person, even if you didn't always want everyone else to know it and beautiful, too. You were always kind of," he smiles to himself. "crazy like that, I guess, but you were always you, you know?" Puck clears his throat as though wanting for some kind of verbal prompt. His eyes sweep over the place where his left hand still rests. "I miss you, and I think I always kind of will. But, uh, I'll… take care of her, okay?"

He says nothing else as he slips away, jaw and fists clenched, back to his seat. A much taller boy would follow him, then, broad-shouldered and almost never-ending. He says little but breaks down in sobs at the front, causing Noah Puckerman to go to him, hands steady on his arms. The only words that the second boy is able to produce are, "I'm sorry," before Puck has to lead him back to his seat. At this point, several others are mimicking his response with choked sobs of their own.

But a pair is next. It's Tina Cohen-Chang and Mike Chang.

"I still have that copy of Dragon Warrior you let me borrow," mutters Mike, grinning painfully. "I'll keep it in good shape, all right?" his voice cracks a little as he gives Tina's closest arm a gentle squeeze.

"I wish I had known you better," Tina murmurs, her throat constricting her voice as she fights back tears. "but that doesn't change the fact that you were like family to me once. I'm sorry that I didn't try."

They, too, walk numbly back to their seats as Artie Abrams rolls carefully past them in his wheelchair. He parks himself at the front, as well, observing in silence the structure before him for several resounding moments.

"_I miss you_," he says. "I never stopped missing you – all those times you'd leave. I knew you'd come back, but that didn't change it. Ever since freshman year when we were chosen to sing that duet together," Artie grins weakly at the thought. "I thought I was so lucky. You were so nice to me and so… pretty," there's a pause, and then: "I miss you still." He looks as though there's something more that he wants to say, but he stops abruptly and turns. Without so much as another word, he rolls back to where he had been parked next to Tina and Mike.

Before he is entirely stationary, however, a certain brunette and blonde duo is on their feet and trudging toward the front. It's clear at once that it's Santana Lopez with Brittany Pierce hot on her heels.

"_How_—!" she reels, pointing an accusing finger at the wooden construction. "HOW – COULD – YOU!" Brittany grasps at Santana's arms then. "No!" trills Santana, chewing viciously on her bottom lip as she peels herself out of Brittany's hold. "I want her to know how I feel," her attention tears away from Brittany and returns to the front. "You weren't supposed to go! You idiot, you stupid, you little! – _no. _How could you do this to us?" Santana's voice breaks off and crumbles to dust. "How? What do you even expect us to do? I, I—"

Again, her voice drops off, but this time Brittany picks up the slack with her hands taking a renewed siege on Santana to steady her.

"Santana's just upset, because she misses you," explains Brittany with her voice low. "She told me so. She misses you a lot. She really loved you, you know, even if you two fought a lot. I loved you, too," she pauses to glance sideways at Santana. "I told Santana not to feel too guilty, that you knew that she really did care about you. If you can, maybe… let Santana know that she doesn't have to feel so bad? I think that'd really help her deal with…" for the first time, Brittany's voice trembles. "—with this," she sighs quietly. "We love you."

They loiter there for another moment before Brittany leads a dry-sobbing Santana away from the display. Not far behind them waits Kurt, stoic and tense. He says nothing at all as he places both hands upon the sleek wood that's surrounded by flowers and velvet. Tight of jaw and stature, he merely leans down and presses his lips to the surface of the closed contraption. Then, he's gone.

Drawing herself up slowly from her chair next is Mercedes Jones with something tucked loosely in her quivering hands. It's quickly apparent that it's a CD case of some sort.

"You left this at my house once," she speaks as though reminding someone of a memory long since past. "I listened to it one night and thought it was crap," a couple of people made noises of fond recognition along with Mercedes, "but I listened to it again a couple of months ago, and I realized that it wasn't as bad," she stops short, her voice hovering sullenly in the air. Then, with a quick intake of breath, she hums softly as she clutches onto the item in her hands. "_'When your lonely heart has learned its lesson, you'd be hers if only she would call. In the wee small hours of the morning, that's the time you miss her most of all.'_"

Mercedes glides wordlessly back to her seat then, as all those beneath the tent grow quiet. A girl dressed in white (quite the paradox in itself) has swayed to the front on unreliable knees with a single flower bud tucked away in her fingertips. It's Rachel Berry, and she's the last of all.

"I don't hate you," she recites the words like a hymn, but her voice isn't celebratory or profound. In truth, it's quite hollow. Still, this is something like old news, a common cliché. Behind her, there isn't a dry eye, and even the birds have stopped their melodies. The wind, too, as though in solidarity, does not rustle. It stands tranquil outside the bindings of the emerald tent like a silent sentinel.

"You didn't belong here, either, you know," Rachel goes on to say, her eyes closed as though she can't bear the sight of yew wood before her. "I waited for you to realize that, even if you thought that leaving was me giving up. It wasn't."

There's a hitch in her voice, and she takes several seconds to steady herself.

"I did what you asked. I followed my dream," the tears begin to flow now, but somehow she continues to speak. "So, why didn't you follow _ours_?" fumbling with the flower amidst her palms, Rachel fingers the petals before carefully placing it atop the wooden coffin just shy of her. "A gardenia," she sniffs, painfully forcing herself to smile. "it means 'secret love.'"

But I suppose it's no good as a secret now, Quinn."


End file.
